


When She Asks

by Anonymous



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Non-Linear Narrative, Rough Oral Sex, i have no excuse i just think this kind of thing is really hot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:59:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28532544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Ayala imagines his captain.
Relationships: Ayala/Kathryn Janeway
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23
Collections: Anonymous





	When She Asks

He has bridge duty, every once in awhile. He tries his best to focus, but it almost always undoes him.

He’s captivated by her. The graceful arch of her neck as she turns to address each station. The confident timbre of her voice. The way she pitches her shoulders back and lifts her chin when answering hails. She’s larger than life. In combat, she's direct, efficient, dangerous. In calmer moments, by turns teasing and indifferent. He _wants_ her.

Today, she banters. She paces around the bridge, station to station, her magnetism enfolding each person she focuses on. He’s no exception.

“Status, lieutenant?” It's near the end of shift, and she’s leaning over his console, staring at him with those eyes — wide and innocuous, and so _blue_. A piece of hair near her ear has come loose, and rests gently against her cheekbone. He forgets what he’s supposed to be doing, for a moment, lost in the way it brushes against the hollow of her cheek. She cocks her head to the side and raises an eyebrow, and he comes back to himself. The corner of her mouth quirks, just for a moment. She knows the effect she has on him. He's sure of it. She must know.

He flushes, caught, and looks down at his console. “No change, sir.”

She pushes away from his console, smirking ever so slightly. “Very good, lieutenant. As you were.”

Then she’s sauntering away, on to her next victim. He tries not to stare at the sway of her hips. He’s not entirely successful.

~

It’s always these nights that are the worst — the nights after bridge duty. 

He tosses and turns, trying to clear his mind; trying to sleep. Each time he closes his eyes, there's only _her_. He groans and rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling, willing himself to think of anything else. It doesn't work — it never does. He reaches into his boxers, accepting the inevitable, and closes his eyes.

He imagines how she’d gasp if he pinned her up against a bulkhead — her quarters, his, it doesn’t matter. He'd press his hands into the wall at her shoulders, holding an inch of space, breathing heavily, until she'd finally tilt her chin up and look at him — at _him_. He’d press flush against her, then, and she’d moan.

He lets out a shuddering breath as he wraps a hand around himself. He’s needed this for hours, ever since she leaned into him on the bridge and he forgot his own name.

He’d kiss her the way he wants to, every time she nods at him in passing in the hallway or lays a hand on his arm while emphasizing a point. He'd kiss her until she couldn't breathe. Until neither of them could breathe, and then a little more. He’d drown in her before letting go. He’d break away and she’d gasp for air, limp against the bulkhead, and he’d wedge a leg between her thighs to help her remain upright. She’d grind her hips against him — he _knows_ she would — and he’d wrap an arm around her waist for support as she rubbed herself up against him. He’d drop his head to her neck — _so beautiful_ — and she’d tip her head back and moan. He’d rake his teeth lightly over the taut cords of her throat, resting his lips at the base of her jaw to feel her pulse hammering hot and fast through her skin.

“Fuck,” he breathes, gripping himself tighter, beginning to drag his hand up the length of his shaft. It’s pathetic, that he needs this so badly. That he wants her so much. He wonders when exactly it happened; he can’t pinpoint it.

His mind’s eye shifts. They’re in bed. She’s bare, lying prone beneath him. He rakes his eyes over her, over every soft curve and smooth plane. He imagines moles and soft curls in unseen places, imagines her reaching up to draw him down to her. Imagines the way he would draw her nipple between his teeth and suck until her eyes fluttered shut, imagines squeezing the other between his fingers, the way she would moan and tangle her fingers in his hair, nails scratching at his scalp. She'd beg for him. He sees himself moving lower, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the flat plane of her abdomen, grasping her hips. She’d tangle her hands in the sheets and let herself fall open, and he'd place kisses at the crux of her hips, where her thigh meets her pelvis… closer, _closer_. He can almost hear how she’d moan when he finally lowers his mouth to her, tongue circling and swiping, can almost feel how she’d tangle her fingers in his thick hair, how she'd be slick and hot and _ready_ , writhing under him as he holds her down.

He pictures her like this often. He knows it's wrong, but if she ever so much as asked... He settles into a rhythm, tugging at himself, groaning at the thought of her. He's so hard it hurts.

Another shift. He’s leaning against the bulkhead, and she’s kneeling in front of him, sucking at him. His hands are in her hair and she looks up at him — _god, those eyes_ — cheeks hollowed out, tongue circling around him. He's seeing stars. He grips her hair tighter and she moans, bringing her hands up to his hips. He thrusts into her mouth and she begins to gag. The noises she’s making… _god_. She looks up at him like she’s going to eat him alive.

He's slick now, and he moans as he tightens his grip on himself, picking up the pace. 

They’re in bed again. She’s beneath him, and he’s thrusting into her, lost in the feel of her legs wrapped around him and her nails clawing at his back and the _noises_ she’s making, _harder, please, god please_ , and he doesn’t know how much longer he can hold off. Then she’s arching up into him, crying out, tightening around him, and he’s following and crashing and spilling into her and _fucking her_ , fucking her the way he wants to, the way he imagines she wants him to, messy and wild. He reaches down between them to draw her out one more time because he can’t let her go; he needs see the way she arches when she comes again, needs to know the exact pitch of her moan, needs her to know that _he_ was the one that brought her to this, again and again and again. Her eyes roll back and she’s grasping at the sheets above her head, keening, and he’s at her neck again, in her ear, commanding her, _yes, Kathryn, just like that, come for me_ , and she bucks against him, writhing and gasping and crying out until she finally collapses into the mattress: flushed under a fine sheen of sweat, temples damp, shining in the moonlight, the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He thrusts and groans and comes into his hand, sticky and foul. After a moment, he realizes the mess he's made, and he wipes his hand clean on his chest. He drapes his arm across his eyes, ashamed. It's always the same, these nights. 

He’d die for her. He’s killed for her.

He’ll do it again, when she asks.


End file.
